How The Duke Got His Groove Back
by hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: Molly Hooper has been keeping a secret. A literary secret. A romantic, literary secret... Which Mummy Holmes has elected to spill. Now Sherlock is getting to see a whole new side to his favorite pathologist's imagination... But who is this Duke Benedict she keeps writing about? And why is he oddly familiar..? Inquiring minds need to know, etc etc. romance novelist HC
1. Deus Ex Parent

_Disclaimer_ : This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely MizJoely. All mistakes are, of course, mine.

* * *

 _Deus Ex Parent_

* * *

Sherlock stares blankly down at the book in his hands, then up at the woman who gave it to him. Then back at the book, then up at Mummy Holmes, and so on, and so on, until John becomes genuinely worried that his friend has deleted what a book is some time in the last year.

After all, he thinks, in the last three weeks Sherlock has already declared the solar system, the monarchy and the current prime minister as superfluous to his mental needs- despite the coming of Brexit- so why would literature be any different?

 _Alas, John has been around his friend far too long to think that it would not and so, as always, he worries._

And, as if to give credence to John's theory, Sherlock looks up at his mother, clearly about to ask what on Earth she bought him this for.

Before he can however she merely grins. Presses a kiss to his cheek and whispers something in his ear. Instantly he blinks, his expression turning buffering.

His hands tighten on the book, the tips of his ears turning pink.

Daddy Holmes looks at his wife- "Didn't trust him to figure it out on his own, eh?"- and Mummy hushes her husband, giggling.

"Didn't trust him to get a move on, more like," she says. "You and I aren't getting any younger, now are we, old bean?"

And then, as if she hasn't just caused her son's mental freeze, she smiles devilishly and gestures to her husband. Tells Sherlock that she and Daddy will be off, and that she hopes he enjoys his birthday gift. In fact, she says she's sure he will. And then she makes a show of patting her husband on the backside, causing Daddy Holmes' ears to redden quite as much as his youngest son's.

 _Not for the first time, it occurs to John that Mummy Holmes might actually be a teensy bit evil._

With another, less diabolical smile to John and a pressed kiss to Rosie's sleeping forehead, the elder Holmeses sail out of 221B, leaving both their son and his best friend somewhat nonplussed. John turns to look at said best friend and, to his surprise, he realizes that the detective is still buffering.

His ears have also gone from pink to bright red, as has the back of his neck.

His eyes are riveted on the book in his hand, and the last time John saw him looking at an object like that, it was quite possibly the Ark of the Covenant (it's a long story).

"Em, everything alright, Sherlock?" He asks, and as if just remembering that he's there, the detective blinks at him. Slowly, slowly, the focus comes back to his expression, though the redness doesn't leave his ears or neck.

In fact, he looks rather… chagrined.

"What is that, anyway?" Johna asks, trying to break the weird atmosphere. He gestures to the book, something with an intrepid-looking woman in a Jane Austen dress and a suave-looking man in a swishy period coat, and makes to take the book from Sherlock's hand. Instinctively Sherlock yanks it away, holding it out of his reach.

John narrows his eyes in suspicion.

Sherlock tries to look innocent, something at which- alas- he does not bloody excel.

"Ok, what's going on?" John asks pointedly. "Because if this is some weird message-from-Eurus, the-fate-of-Britain-hangs-in-the-balance-thing, then I deserve to know-"

"It's nothing!" The tone in which Sherlock's says this clearly implies that a) it's _not_ nothing, and b) he damn well knows he doesn't sound like it is. Given that he has a great deal of experience with that tone, John does what he normally does, namely cross his arms and stare his friend down. Let him stew in his own juices, seeing which one of them will crack first-

"It's about, it's about a case," Sherlock blurts out.

He sounds somewhere between horrified and triumphant, that he said that.

John cocks an eyebrow at him, his expression the universal image for _pull the other one, it's got bells on._

Sherlock, however, is warming to his theme, doubtless under the impression that that Great Big Brain of his has saved the day once again.

"Yes," he says, his tone growing steadier as he speaks. He does that walking-and-making-his-housecoat-flare thing he likes so much. "Yes, it's for a case," he says, "one which Mummy rather wants me to look into… She, she wants me to figure out the author's identity…Silly thing, really, but when Mummy calls..." For a moment something… soft, and nameless, moves through Sherlock's expression and just as quickly it's gone, leaving John even less convinced his friend isn't talking bollocks than he was a minute ago.

"So this is a request from your mum?" He asks.

His tone positively drips cynicism.

Sherlock draws himself up to his rather greater height, looks down at his friend. "Indeed," he says gravely, "this may be a very important case… For her." The detective swallows. "Alas, however, it will not involve any legwork, which will rather leave you out of the run of things, John..."

 _How convenient,_ Watson thinks.

He suspects his expression conveys this sentiment quite clearly.

"Yes, well…" Sherlock clears his throat. "I had better get to work… On the, um, identity of the author." He draws the book somewhat protectively to his chest. "I shall spend the rest of the night reading, John, you may show yourself out…"

And with that he toddles off to his room, still trying to look innocent and still failing spectacularly.

John watches him go, then picks up his daughter and holds her to his chest, making his way towards his old room, already planning on spending the night. "Uncle Sherlock's up to something, Rosie," he whispers. "Will we stick around until he makes a plonker of himself?"

The baby says nothing, merely coos in her sleep, as John Watson puts her down and awaits the outcome of his friend's latest bout of stupidity.


	2. The Masochism Tango

_This fanfiction is not written for profit, and no infrinement of copyright is intended. Still beta read by the lovely MizJoely. And thank you to all who have read, reviewed and enjoyed. A short chappie this time, but then that's why they call it a slow burn, eh?_

* * *

 _The Masochism Tango_

* * *

Having succeeded in getting rid of John- if not allaying his suspicions- Sherlock sits down on his bed and examines the book his mother just gave him. It's hardback, a prestige copy, doubtless part of the novel's first run. It's been signed by the author too, and, despite the fact that he doesn't want to think about what his mother said, Sherlock opens the book. Stares down at the author's signature, so different from the context in which he normally sees it.

 _Molly Ann Hooper,_ the signature reads. _Love and thanks for all your support, xxx_

He might be mistaken, but Sherlock could swear the page smells ever so slightly of Molly's perfume.

 _And well it might,_ he thinks, still examining the signature, before dismissing the thought as fanciful. More likely, it was Mummy's perfume, or that of the cashier from whom she bought it, that he can smell. _But still…_

At the thought he shakes himself, forcing himself to concentrate. Now that the evidence is in front of him, he feels remarkably dull that he didn't put it together before. After all, he'd seen Molly's lovely, comfortable, _extremely central_ flat right in the middle of London, but he hadn't stopped to wonder how she managed to buy it on her salary. After all, yes, she was a professional woman at the top of her field, and yes, his interactions with Mrs. Hudson had left him with a somewhat… haphazard notion of property prices in London, but he should still have figured out that a single woman with only her own income should _not_ have been able to afford Molly's tiny flat.

Any more than she should have been able to afford to upgrade to the larger bungalow she bought last year.

 _But then,_ Sherlock muses _, I always miss something._

And with Molly Hooper, he thinks dryly, he had apparently missed that she was a well-known and highly read author, albeit of (judging by the cover) romance novels. Period romance novels, which he suspects make her work even less respectable…

At the thought he puts the book down on his bedside locker. Turns his back to it and pulls out his phone. _For some reason, he finds himself unwilling to begin reading Molly's book, despite Mummy suggesting he do just that._

He sneaks a peak at the title of the book- _To Serve At His Lady's Pleasure-_ and opens google. Types in the book's name and Molly's nom de plume. Instantly several fan pages come up, a page on Goodreads, some reviews on romance blogs-

 _You're procrastinating,_ a voice which sounds suspiciously like John's murmurs in his ear.

 _Bugger off,_ Sherlock responds primly, something which makes the John in his head laugh.

 _What are you so afraid of?_ The Phantom Watson asks in amusement. _Afraid you won't like the book- Or that you_ _ **will**_ _?_ Sherlock grits his teeth at the glee in his friend's voice. _Or are you worried that_ _ **this**_ _romance novel is like the ones Uncle Rudy used to favour, all rippling muscles and he-man heroes, and oh, but why would you care about the sort of romantic heroes Molly Hooper likes to write about..?_

"Shut up!" Sherlock can't take anymore; he stands up. Presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. Picks up this violin and plays a couple of notes. Almost instantly his phone goes off- _Wake Rosie and I'll kill you,_ John's text message reads- and so Sherlock has no choice but to sit back down. Pout and cross his arms.

He glares at the violin as if it has done him some personal affront.

 _This is all Mummy's fault,_ he thinks. _Mummy's, and Molly's, for going and becoming a novelist in the first place._

Unbidden, an image of Molly's face were she to hear him say that pops into his head, and instantly Sherlock feels a bit contrite.

"I'm not going to read much," he declares to the empty room, something which the John in his head sounds rather less than convinced of. "I'm not, and you can't make me," he repeats. "I am the master of Castle Holmes." And yet… He still finds himself pulling off his jacket, rolling his shirt sleeves up. He still finds himself sitting down lengthways on his bed. The book's spine cracks as he opens it- carefully, carefully- As he switches on his bedside lamp. As he peers at the crisp, creamy paper.

"How bad could it be?" he mutters, flicking past the publishing information and the author's dedication before settling on the first page.

Four hours later, breathless and unable to sleep, he will regret underestimating Molly Hooper's literary abilities in quite this way, but that's for the future…

For now, he settles himself down and reads…


	3. Dude, Where's My Shirt?

_Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely MizJoely but of course all mistakes are mine. Thank you again for the reviews, reading and general support this has received. Now let do this..._

* * *

 _Dude, Where's My Shirt?_

* * *

" _Stay behind me," Benedict murmurs, moving himself in front of Luisa._

 _He has drawn his own pistol, his coat billowing behind him as they climb further up the Rake's Back Falls._

 _The young healer makes an impatient noise, trying to keep apace with him despite the unwieldiness of her skirts. "After all of our adventures together, Your Grace," she says imperiously, "one would assume that you know me to be far from helpless-"_

" _I do not think you helpless," Benedict snaps. "I think you human!"_

 _Despite his glower, and the luminous darkness which shines out of those exquisite aquamarine eyes, Luisa tilts her chin upwards challengingly._

 _Infuriating creature that he is, he crosses his arms and glares back down at her._

 _One would almost think they were not on the trail of the vicious forger, Herr Magnussen, Luisa muses, the way they were behaving…_

" _I am as human as you, m'lord," she points out testily. "And_ _ **I**_ _am not nursing a gunshot wound and damage to my sight." She tries to gentle her tone. "I should think it would be mere good sense to let me go first on so perilous a journey as this-"_

" _No!" Something moves through Benedict's eyes, something so fast that Luisa isn't sure she didn't imagine it. Could it- Could he be... worried about her? She thinks on his querulousness during this entire adventure, on his unwillingness to speak of her recent engagement. Could it be that he feels for her what she feels for him? she wonders, though she knows the thought a traitor to her heart. And yet… The idea makes her breath catch in her throat, makes her heart hammer, and maybe he understands it, maybe he reads it in her as he always does because slowly, slowly, as if he were edging closer to a doe or some timid, delicate bird, he reaches for her. Takes her by her elbows. Pulls her flush against his warm, powerful chest._

" _Luisa," he murmurs, looking down at her, "my dear Luisa… Surely you know that were anything to happen to you then I would never forgive myself?" He lays his forehead on hers. "In fact, were anything to happen to you… Why, I cannot allow myself to even contemplate it."_

 _And gently, reverently, he reaches down. Touches his lips to hers. The feel of it is electric, so much more affecting than even a more passionate touch by Luisa's sweet fiance. The wind picks up, rain and gale catching around them as they finally, finally, give into the sweet temptation which has been vexing them for all their long years of friendship-_

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson's voice sounds as loud as a bullhorn. "Sherlock, your breakfast's ready! John said I should make certain to call you."

Groggy, uncertain after being broken out of the novel's enchantment, Sherlock frowns. Tries to stand. Lands on his arse and then has to try to stand again, something he just about manages. He feels as wobbly on his legs as a colt.

 _Damn Mrs. Hudson for interrupting,_ he thinks irritably _, just when I was getting to the good part… It's taken Benedict 300 plus pages and God knows how many_ _ **other**_ _books in this series to finally get his head out of his arse and now-_

But speaking of heads… There's a smart knock on his door and then his landlady's visage appears around it, her smile sunny, her voice obnoxiously cheerful.

Sherlock resists the urge to throw something.

"Your tea is in the parlor, dearie," she tells him. "Today's papers are as well, if you're interested- Including your copy of _Tobacco Ash Quarterly._ Donna down in Speedy's says it was sent to them again, instead of here." She clicks her tongue. "You'd think they'd know, after all these years…"

And, her messages delivered, she darts away, humming lightly. For a moment Sherlock is tempted to tell her where she can stick her bloody tea, and her bloody copy of _Tobacco Ash Quarterly_ , but he supposes it's not her fault, it's John's. The short-arsed doctor probably thought that was hilarious, he muses darkly, getting her to wake me after knowing I'd been up all night on a case.

 _A case?_ The John in his head inquires with a grin. _Is that what the cool kids are calling it these days?_

With a deeply martyred sigh Sherlock tells this mental incarnation of his best friend to just. Bugger. Off.

Phantom John chortles, but says no more. _Sherlock cannot help but suspect that his silence will not last._ "Well?" Mrs. Hudson prompts from what sounds like the kitchen. "Are you getting up?" The sound of scraping delf, of cups and saucers being put away. "That tea's not getting any hotter, you know…" She snorts. "Not that that's ever stopped you before…"

For a moment Sherlock contemplates going out. Pretending to be interested in the day. Pretending to be interested in doing anything other than finding out what precisely Duke Benedict is proposing to do in order to win the heart of the lovely Luisa Hopville. But then, just as surely, his eyes are drawn back to the book. Back to Molly's handiwork.

 _He really wants to find out what happens._

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he calls, pulling on his dressing gown. He tucks the book surreptitiously into his pocket. "I shall be out shortly, but I must insist that I have absolute privacy today: I shall spend it in my Mind Palace."

He might be wrong, but he swears he can hear a touch of amusement in her voice. "Righty-ho, dear," she tells him. "I'll make myself scarce."

And with that he hears the door to 221B close.

Relieved to be alone, once again, with his latest adventure, Sherlock pads into the kitchen and plonks himself down in front of the fireplace. By the time he's poured his tea and sipped it, he's more than ready to get back to his book…

Unfortunately, of course, this is precisely when Molly Hooper, novelist extraordinaire, decides to do the Utterly Unthinkable to him.


	4. I Don't Like The Phrase

_Disclaimer: this fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely MizJoely. Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed._

* * *

 _I Don't Like The Phrase "Too Dumb To LIve," But It Sort Of Applies_

* * *

Molly is having a fairly straight-forward day when Hurricane Sherlock decides to make landfall.

She's sitting in her office, filling in the last of her paperwork for the week- _Thank you, Mighty Flying Spaghetti Monster!_ \- when she hears the door to the morgue bang open. Sees the familiar, telltale shadow flit across her peripheral vision, flowy coat all a-tremble. Rapid-fire footsteps pacing across the floor.

By the time he's started yelling for her she's out of her seat and exiting the office, not sure (as usual) what she's about to be dragged into-

"How could you?!" he snaps as soon as he sees her.

Molly blinks, frowns. Tries to work out what the hell he could be on about and comes up blank.

Fortunately, Sherlock doesn't apparently expect a response. (It's rare that he does.)

"I mean, it's entrapment, is what it is!" he's saying. "Getting people involved, and caring, and wanting to know what will happen, and then bam! You pull the rug out from under them! Leaving them feeling bereft, and angry- Yes, angry!- and you know, actually, really, quite badly used after all you've put them through-I mean, were you always this sadistic?"

At this he finally has to take a breath, and Molly takes the opportunity to interject (because who knows when she might get the chance again?)

 _She's also not sure how long she has before the puppy-dog eyes he's brought out will start to work on her._

"Sherlock," she says, forcing her voice into a calmness which would have had all of her interns running, "do you mind telling me what the bloody hell you're on about?" At his outraged expression she crosses her arms. "Because, hard as this may be to believe, I am not, in fact, capable of reading your thoughts."

For a moment he looks flummoxed, surprised, perhaps, at being given an order, but he soon rallies. Draws himself up to his great, posh height and glowers down his thin, posh nose at her. It makes his expensive, posh shirt buttons tighten delightfully across his chest, and Molly is forced to repress the desire to leer.

 _Jesus, she wishes he didn't look so fit when pissed off._

"I am talking," he bites out, "about what you did to Benedict and Luisa."

"Benedict and Luisa?" For a moment she doesn't understand, but then… Then she does. _Oh shit,_ she thinks. _Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit._ Again she blinks, horror flowing through her as she realizes what Sherlock must be talking about. He'd figured out the one thing she'd managed to keep from him all these years: her life as a novelist. A novelist who may have based her best selling book series just a tiny bit on him. _And now he was apparently on the warpath about it._ "Wh-What?" She stammers because really, that's all her brain has got at the moment. She sees the smugness in his expression and her face colors. _Stupid complexion._ "So you know- I mean, you read-?"

"Oh yes," he snaps, "I read your latest opus."

Again the puppy dog eyes make an appearance.

Molly feels their awesome power, but manages to hold it at bay- Just.

 _She will_ _ **not**_ _let him get the better of her over this._

"I _was_ planning to read your others," Sherlock says, "but considering what you did to Benedict, I'm not so sure. I'm not sure about anything."

He ruffles his fingers angrily through his curls, starts pacing even more maniacally. Molly really doesn't know what to make of him; as is often the case, she doesn't know whether she wants to kiss him or deck him.

"I just don't understand," he's muttering, more to himself than her. "Why would you _do_ that? Why would you throw away everything Benedict and Luisa had? After six books? After they manage to save the Empress of Austria _and_ reunite Martin with his errant wife- Who faked her own death to protect him? After all that why would you have Luisa reject the love of her life- For what? For that popinjay Thomas?!"

At that, Molly rallies, feeling oddly protective. "Thomas is _not_ a popinjay!"

Sherlock's look might well be grounds for murder.

"Of course he's a popinjay," he retorts. "He doesn't have even the most rudimentary qualities which are important to a woman like Luisa!"

"I beg your pardon?" _Luisa is_ _ **her**_ _character, not Sherlock's. Molly knows what Luisa needs better than some johnny-come-lately reader does._ "Thomas is _exactly_ what Luisa needs," she snaps. "He's sweet, and caring, and generous, and loving-"

"All of which would bore Luisa stupid," Sherlock interjects, speaking over her. _He sounds so obnoxiously sure of himself, it makes Molly want to throw something._ "A woman like Luisa, who makes her living cutting up cadavers, and pretending to be a man, and having adventures with a penniless but brilliant Duke, that sort of woman doesn't want some mawkish little pushover-"

"Being a good boyfriend does not make you mawkish!" Molly snaps. "Nor does it make you a pushover." Again he sputters, again she speaks over him. "And frankly I don't understand why you even care about any of this, Sherlock!"

"You don't?" he demands, looking horrified.

Horrified, and a little bit… God help her, a little bit _hurt._

"No," she snaps, bewildered. "I really, really don't!" And she doesn't. She doesn't understand, not any of it. Because yes, some of her readers (ok, all of her readers) had been aghast at how she left the last book, with Benedict nobly sailing off to fight Napoleon and Luisa facing the prospect of marrying her long-suffering fiancé, but come on! It wasn't like she was going to leave things like that!

 _She has her eye on a summer home in Cornwall; She would not be putting down a payment on it if she did something as professionally suicidal as_ _ **that**_ _._

And even if she had decided to end the book series that way, she thinks darkly, it wasn't like Benedict didn't have it coming, given all his nonsense over the years. Oh, she had chronicled all of it; His dalliances with the brilliant Greek spy, Eirene, and the gorgeous, charming Jeanette. Not to mention all the men he sweet-talked, bowled over… Even his nemesis, James Morte, had flirted with him just as much as he'd threatened. And then there was how badly Benedict had treated Luisa over the years… And that business with trying to break up her engagement… _it was not a pretty picture, not at all._ In fact, part of writing Luisa rejecting Benedict had been cathartic for Molly; giving her character the freedom to leave the brilliant, infuriating, adorable git with whom she was in love when Molly hadn't been able to do the same thing in Real Life had proved surprisingly beneficial for her emotional health… _Especially after That Bloody Phone Call…_

Sherlock is looking at her oddly now though, that look he gets when he's buffering.

He doesn't appear to be really in the room anymore, and it confuses Molly almost more than anything else.

Again, again it looks like he's hurting and just like her stupid heart always does, it goes out to him. "So you don't…" He stammers. "I mean, you haven't..?"

"Haven't what, Sherlock?" Molly asks.

 _What on earth is going on with him?_

"You really think that Luisa would be happier without Benedict?" he mumbles, and his voice is so bereft, so mournful.

He can't meet her eyes and despite how much of a git he's being, Molly feels her heart twist even more harshly in her chest.

"It's a romance novel, Sherlock," she says gently. "It's not real life. The characters, they're not real, the guarantee of a happy ever after certainly isn't. That's the deal when you write this sort of book." She takes a deep breath, tries to be logical. "But yes, I do think Luisa would be better off with Thomas. Even if my readers don't agree with it…" He pulls away; She reaches out. Tries to take his hand. He won't let her, and she feels the sting of that too. "But you shouldn't worry," she says softly, ignoring the pang. "It will all work out in the end, I promise. That's the joy of these sort of books. Luisa will be fine…"

"Benedict won't, though."

And there's something in his tone, something Molly can't put her finger on.

It feels, as it often does with Sherlock, as if they're both talking to one another but about very different things.

"I should go." The words are sudden. Unexpected. Sherlock steps away. Opens the door to the morgue. Molly is reluctant to see him go, but his mind seems made up-

 _And she's never been able to stop him doing anything, not when his mind's made up._

The thought hits her like a punch in the gut and dammit, she doesn't know _why._

"Sorry," he says, and again she's not sure what he's referring to. "I'm sorry about everything," he adds, and this time she's fairly sure he's not talking about the lecture on her books. Before she can say as much though he's off, head down, shoulders hunched, and muttering to himself though Molly can't tell what he's saying…

Molly shrugs, tries to get back to work, but she finds that she can't concentrate.

When she gets home to her flat though, she finds a surprise waiting for her.


	5. Not So Much A Romance

_Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the redoubtable MizJoely. Thank you to all who have read and enjoyed: we're nearly there..._

* * *

 _Not So Much A Romance As A Slow-Motion Kidnapping_

* * *

"Officially," the woman intones, "I'm not here."

And she nods to Molly, as if that explains everything. Which it doesn't. And which Molly really doesn't think it should. _So-_

"I'm going to need a little bit more than that," the pathologist says, setting her bag down beside her and closing the door to her flat. Closing her hand tightly around her keys, one showing through her knuckles in case she has to lash out and make a run for it. She looks at the other woman, trying to place her, but though she seems familiar the answer eludes her.

The woman narrows her eyes.

"You don't remember me, do you?" she says, and if Molly didn't know better, she'd think her tone was amused. "I suppose I wouldn't either, with Sherlock Holmes swanning around me in a state of undress..."

It clicks. "You're Mycroft's assistant," Molly says. "Anthea, wasn't it? You were there when I helped-"

"When you helped Sherlock fake his death, yes." The other woman sounds impatient. "I was the one driving his getaway car after we picked him up from Bart's and spirited him away to certain death and possible glory, etc. etc. etc." She gives a sarcastic little wave. "Hi!"

Now it's Molly's turn to narrow her eyes. "So, is there a reason you've broken into my house?" she asks tartly, crossing her arms. "Because frankly I've taken about as much from the Holmes brothers today as I can manage-"

"Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock know I'm here," Anthea says. "In fact, were Mycroft to find out then I suspect he would be a bit... put out."

Molly stiffens in alarm. "Then who sent you?"

 _Please don't let it be another super-criminal,_ she thinks _, please don't let it be another super-criminal...  
_  
The other woman shoots her a sly, knowing smile though. "Why, Aunty Pen," she says matter-of-factly. Another, more wicked smile. "Better known to the rest of the world as the redoubtable Mummy Holmes."

At Molly's reaction the woman reaches into her bag, tosses a well-thumbed paperback onto the coffee table in front of her. It's a copy of Molly's second Duke and Luisa book, _A Scandal In Bohemia._ "She's rather a fan of yours, Doctor Hooper," Anthea says. "Has been ever since, oh, that second book?" Another smile. "Once, of course, she figured out just who the errant Duke Benedict was based on, of course."

She chuckles and Molly's cheeks heat. _So_ _ **that's**_ _who ratted her out to Sherlock._

The pathologist bristles.

"If you're here to tell me to stop publishing, well, you're a bit late," she bites out. Which, now that she's said it aloud, doesn't sound terribly likely. _If Mummy Holmes had a problem with her writing choices, Molly can't help but suspect that she would have heard about it long before now._ Anthea shoots her a _Don't Be An Idiot_ look: It's so like Sherlock's that Molly can't help but wonder whether they're in some way related.

 _The tendency to break into people's houses would seem to support that conjecture.  
_  
"Aunt Pen gave him that book in the hopes that he would, and I quote, 'Get his overextended head out of his under-attenuated arse and finally do something about his feelings for you'," Anthea says dryly. "Apparently, she's yet to give up on her hopes of grandchildren, and she'd like to be able to lift them while they're young." The other woman shrugs. "She rang my mother. My mother rang me and, well, _she_ knows where I live." Anthea gives a delicately martyred sigh. "So I have therefore been dispatched to beseech you to give Sherlock a try, even though he's being an absolute numpty about things- another direct quote, that- and even though he's absolutely useless at feelings and being in love with you and whatnot-"

Molly blinks. "Sorry, what?" _She can't have heard that right._ "Sherlock is- I mean, his mother thinks that he's-"

"In love with you? Oh yes. And she's not the only one." This time Anthea's smile is softer. Molly gapes at her like a simpleton and she shoots her another _Don't Be An Idiot_ look. "He might not have a clue how he feels about you, or what to do with you should he figure it out, but he is definitely mad about you." Anthea's eyes turn devilish. "That has been obvious ever since his fall, my dear Doctor Hooper- Or did you think he paraded around without his shirt on for just anybody?"

And at this she laughs out loud, possibly at the mortified expression on Molly's face.

 _No,_ _ **definitely**_ _at the mortified expression on Molly's face._

Molly feels her cheeks heat, the rather vivid memory those words bring back making her swallow. That first sight of Sherlock, wandering around in a state of undress as she tried to check on him after he jumped from Bart's roof had indeed been... Well, _formulative_ was probably the most innocent word she could use to cover it.

 _And she'd been_ _ **formulating**_ _late night fantasies about it ever bloody since..._

One look at Anthea tells her that the other woman knows precisely where her thoughts have gone and despite herself she sticks her tongue out at her. Again Anthea laughs.

She holds her hands up in surrender.

"Look, I know he likes to pretend to be all windswept and mysterious," she says, "but Sherlock really is rather tediously in love with you, I'm afraid." She shrugs. "Believe me, if I didn't think so then I wouldn't be here, Aunty Pen or no." She reaches into her purse and takes out a card. Places it on the coffee table beside the book. "That's for you," she says, giving Molly a wink. "Should you choose to use it, that is." Another look. "I definitely think you should, just so you know."

And with that she rises and leaves, so swiftly and elegantly that Molly is surprised she doesn't disappear in a puff of smoke. Leaving Molly to slump backwards in her chair and wonder what the hell her life has come to-

* * *

While on the other side of town, Sherlock Holmes opens the door to 221b, only to have his Not-His-Housekeeper lob a book at his head…


	6. Clarity, Or Why Old People Are Sad

_Disclaimer: this fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by MizJoely- many thanks. One more to go after this one (and there may be smut, if you all good) but until then... Enjoy!_

* * *

 _Clarity, or Why Old People Are Sad And Throw Books At You_

* * *

"Oi!"

Sherlock manages to duck, but only just; the book sails over his head and smacks smartly into the wall behind him, tumbling to the floor. As he stoops to pick it up, another is lobbed by Mrs. Hudson, then another and another, his Not Your Landlady muttering the sort of vicious invective that would do a team of navvies proud.

 _Sherlock hasn't seen her this menacing since that time she had him tied up and put in the boot of her car, and just as it had then, he suspects it bodes him no good._

"You idiot!" she's yelling. "You absolute bloody numpty!" She goes for another book and belatedly seems to realize she's run out. In the momentary cease-fire, Sherlock looks at the ones she's already thrown, and realize that they are all Molly's. There's the first Duke and Luisa book, _A Study In Magenta,_ as well as the third, _The Sign of The Blackmailer_ and, of course, her latest, (it brings a pang to his chest to see it) _To Serve At His Lady's Pleasure._ All look well-thumbed and well-loved.

It occurs to Sherlock, belatedly, that these must belong to Mrs. Hudson, since they certainly don't belong to him.

 _Well, all but the last,_ he realizes. _**That**_ _copy is his, he can tell by how new it is._

He takes in Mrs. Hudson's worryingly angry face, the evidence of the books and comes to the obvious conclusion-

"You read Molly's latest," he says wearily. "The one where she finally gets over Benedict."

On saying the words out loud he sinks down onto the nearest seat, too deflated to really do anything else, and looks plaintively at Hudders.

 _Maybe,_ he thinks, _maybe she'll take pity on me and give me biscuits. If ever anything deserves tea and biscuits, it's the sudden realisation that one has a broken heart._

This, however, soon proves to be an overly-optimistic notion.

"You're bloody right I read Molly's book," Mrs. Hudson snaps. She crosses her arms tartly over her chest. Taps her toe. _At moments like this, Sherlock can well imagine her running a drugs cartel._ "And frankly, Sherlock, I must say, after waiting for that book _for three bloody years_ , I do not appreciate what you have driven our Molly to, in her writing!"

"Driven her to?" Sherlock snaps, disbelieving. Immediately his deflation leaves him, his old friend Righteous Indignation taking its place. " _Driven her to?_ I didn't even bloody know that those books existed until this week!"

And he gets to his feet, starts pacing. Drags his hand through his hair, trying to master his temper: the last hour has been difficult- mainly due to his conversation with Molly and its fallout- and he is in no mood to let Mrs. Hudson run amok in his- her- _his,_ _ **dammit**_!- flat.

Apparently, however, La Hudson is not impressed and she is keen to share this with him.

 _Sherlock can tell because she's glaring at him and not giving him biscuits._

"You may not have known about the books, Sherlock," she's pointing out, "but I refuse to believe that you didn't know how Molly feels about you- Or how you feel about her." She shakes her head, looks at him pityingly, and Sherlock is strongly tempted to stick out his tongue at her. "A blind idiot could see that you're batty about her, whether you want to admit it or not-"

"I do want to admit it!" Sherlock retorts. "I bloody well _tried_ to admit it!"

And he had- Sort of. (Everything with he and Molly seems to be sort of, he muses morosely.) Because today, when he had heard her say those dreaded words- that Luisa would be happier with Thomas- the most remarkable thing had happened. In a sudden, painful, mortifying moment of clarity Sherlock had figured out that a) he was in love with Molly and b) he suspected that Molly was no longer in love with him. _Not if the entire literary universe she had set up to work her way through her feelings was coming to an ignominious end._ Not being great with feelings at the best of times, he hadn't managed to get his act together to do more than say something a bit pathetic and take his leave, the better to come home and lick his wounds and work out how in the name of hell he had missed being madly, irresistibly in love with someone-

"You're talking out loud, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson's voice cuts through his thoughts, and this time she sounds… Well, she still sounds angry, but she also sounds slightly exasperated. Exasperated and fond, which is what most people who care about him sound like, he knows.

 _This thought brings an image to mind of Molly, smiling indulgently at him in happier days, and he feels his heart clench sharply in his chest._

Maybe his pain shows on his face, maybe Hudders really can't help herself where he's concerned, but she softens. Shakes her head at him and sinks onto the sofa, patting the place beside her and inviting Sherlock to sit. Though he suspects he looks asinine, the detective nevertheless takes the invitation, plonking himself down beside her with a dramatic sigh and staring glumly ahead, the knowledge of how awful his experience today was making him pout despondently-

Mrs. Hudson waits a moment, thinking apparently, and then, very carefully, she puts her hand on his.

Sherlock doesn't want to admit how good it feels.

She looks at him askance and he inclines his head in acquiescence, as if to say _if you must._

An oddly… not-entirely-awful silence stretches out and despite the day's events and the continuing lack of biscuits, Sherlock feels a modicum better.

A beat.

 _He should have known it wouldn't last._

"So you've figured it out?" Mrs. Hudson says eventually, because God knows that comfortable silence couldn't have lasted, Sherlock muses.

Too depressed to even be sarcastic, he merely nods morosely and goes back to staring into space.

He hears Hudders give a martyred sigh.

"So what are you going to _do_ about it, Sherlock?" she asks bluntly. He turns to look at her, and she has the most irritatingly shrewd look on her face. In that moment, she reminds him disconcertingly of both his mother… And Mary.

 _As always, when he thinks about the former Mrs. Watson, he feels a pang in his chest._

"Do about it?" he counters, pushing the feeling away. "What _can_ I do about it?" His heart twists again, more sharply, but he forces the words out. _He had better get used to saying them aloud._ "Molly's feelings for me have clearly run their course, and as her friend I must accept that-"

"Bollocks." Hudson doesn't even give him time to sputter in surprise, she just ploughs forward. Now it's _her_ turn to pace. Her turn to glare at him. _Once again he finds himself reminded that she once ran an international drugs ring. "_ You are Sherlock Holmes," she says sharply. "Smartest man in London. The most irritating, impossible, _stubborn_ git I have ever known, and the closest thing I will ever have to a son: are you telling me you're just going to give up?" She snorts. "Not on my watch, you bloody won't.

Now get out of that chair and put on one of those ridiculously tight shirts you wear for Molly."

 _That he wears for…?!_ "I shan't!" Sherlock snaps, because if there's one thing he does not do, it's take orders. Not from Hudders, not from anyone.

"You bloody well will do," Hudson growls, looking down at him, "or I'm calling your mum, and you can have this talk with her." Sherlock scowls at the effrontery and she snaps one long, elegant finger out, pointing at his bedroom. "In you go," she says. "Chop, chop. Purple shirt, or aubergine. Grey wool suit, the new one from Christmas, and if you have an ounce of sense you won't bother with underwear, now scram!"

And she starts bustling him towards his bedroom, muttering under her breath that she waited three years for that last book and she's not waiting the same amount of time for the next one. That if she has to, she'll lock them both in the booth of her car and she won't let them out until Mummy Holmes can expect grandchildren. Harried, harassed and (dare he say it) a tiny bit hopeful, Sherlock allows himself to hustled into his bedroom and sets about finding the clothing items Mrs. Hudson suggested-

He emerges from his room twenty minutes later to find a picture text on his phone, from Anthea.

It shows Molly Hooper heading into a badly lit (and, frankly, suspiciously nondescript) establishment. It looks like it's in Soho- _No, it's_ _ **definitely**_ _in Soho._

 _Faint heart never won fair maiden,_ the text reads. _You have thirty minutes to join her here, or who knows what may happen?_

This is followed by the establishment's address and GPS coordinates.

To his extreme satisfaction, Sherlock makes it there in ten.


	7. To Serve At His Lady's

_Disclaimer:_ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely MizJoely, though of course all mistakes are mine. I think there will be a brief epilogue to this, but in the mean time- Enjoy! And thank you as always to everyone who has read, commented and enjoyed.

* * *

 _To Serve At His Lady's (Eventual)_ _Pleasure_

* * *

The first thing Sherlock notices when he enters is the bouncer.

She's an older woman wearing a burgundy corseted evening dress, complete with bustle, opera gloves and an ostrich feather in her hair.

She also has a large baseball bat stowed discreetly behind her chair, a pint of ale sitting at her toe.

 _As doorkeepers go, she looks formidable._

"Doesn't hurt to be prepared," she says crisply when she notices him staring. Her voice is thick Yorkshire, it sounds oddly incongruous with her costume. "You have an invitation?"

And she takes a nonchalant sip of her ale.

Sherlock plasters his most charming smile on his face but she huffs, unimpressed, before he can say a word. "Spare me, son," she says evenly. Sherlock attempts to look affronted but even he doesn't believe him. "Why do you want in?"

Another nonchalant sip of her ale.

The detective is tempted to lie, but for once in his life he can't think of any remotely helpful falsehood. So, painful as it is for him, he opts for the truth- _Ghastly as that may be._ "The woman I have just realized I love is in there," he says gruffly. At the woman's grin he glares, and never mind how unhelpful his pink cheeks are being: _faint heart never won fair maiden, dammit!_ "She- I- Well, that is, I tried to tell her how I um, you know, _felt_ and as matters turned out, I, apparently, through no real fault of my own, appear to have made an utter, well, balls of it-"

"Duffed it up, did you?" The woman snickers. "Poor lamb."

Sherlock draws himself up to his full (not inconsiderable height) and glowers down at her. The woman appears unworried, however, and it dimly occurs to him how much trouble certain criminals might save themselves, were they to enlist this sort of security person. "Look, I don't expect you to let me in for nothing," he says crisply. "I am well aware that you are here to keep out the riff-raff-"

"As well as soft, toff Southerners-"

He grits his teeth. "-As well as soft, toff Southerners-"

"So why should I let you in, pet?" The older woman leans forward, her eyes narrowed and keen. "Why should I do anything for you?"

And again she takes a sip of her pint, raising her pinkie this time.

It is unspeakably irritating.

Sherlock closes his mouth, at a loss. Something tells him that neither the offer of money or flattery will help him here. And yet, what else is there? _Unless..?_

He steels his spine and drops his eyes. _This is going to be painful._

"Please," he says. "Please let me in. I- I have to fix this, I daren't think how bad things will get if I don't."

"So this is just about getting what you want, is it?"

The older woman's voice is skeptical.

"No!" Sherlock says. Aware of how… exuberantly that came out, he moderates his tone. "It's about… It's about her knowing how much she means to me. It's about me telling her how important she is, and how sorry I am that I hurt her, and that I want to make it up to her, I do, if she will only just let me-"

The woman holds up her hand. "Alright, pet," she says, "that's enough, you've convinced me." She grins brightly, leans down and picks up a battered-looking book of raffle tickets. Pulls him off one, waggling it before him like one might a child's rattle. "It's half price since you came in costume," she says brightly. "So that'll be ten pounds and fifty pence, please-"

Sherlock blinks. "You mean there's-?"

"A charge in? Oh yes." The older woman grins more widely. "I just love seeing how far you cosplayers will go. And also, I'm a little bit evil- You can ask my grandchildren." She makes a show of fanning herself. "That's quite a Duke Benedict you've got there, son- You're girl's a lucky lass."

 _Cosplayers?_ Sherlock thinks. _Duke Benedict?_ _ **What the Hell sort of place is this?**_ Nevertheless he fishes into his jacket, pulls out a crisp twenty pound note and places it on the table, taking the raffle ticket from her.

"Keep the change," he says darkly.

The older woman nods. "Don't mind if I do." She reaches down to where she had stashed her book of raffle tickets and takes out a photocopied sheet. "That's the night's itinerary," she says. Sherlock takes it without a glance, tucking it and the raffle ticket into his inside jacket pocket. "Down that corridor, to the right," the woman is saying. "Have fun, pet-"

And before she can think of any other ways to torture him Sherlock does as he's told, heading swiftly down the corridor and pushing open a pair of fire doors.

The sight inside makes him stop dead.

For there are Luisas everywhere, women dressed in period costume with their hair up and either a sword or a set of pistols at their hips, both of which Luisa has worn at some point in Molly's books. A smaller smattering of men in period costume can also be spied; They are mingled in with other women (and the occasional man) dressed in modern street clothes, bopping along to something bass-heavy and loud which Sherlock suspects is supposed to be music-

"Oh my God," a voice sounds beside him. "Are you a modern-day AU?"

The woman sounds Australian.

"You look exactly like Benedict," another voice says, Irish this time. "Did you make the costume or buy it-? Oh, and can I get a selfie with you?" The sound of ruffling pockets. "Just let me find my mobile-"

Before this erstwhile Celtic selfie-seeker can do anything Sherlock sweeps away and into the room, his eyes trained on the crowd, determined to find Molly. There are several women of the same height and build, but none have the particular, peculiar loveliness which his Molly possesses, and so he easily dismisses them- Until he finds her.

Of course, then he almost wishes he hadn't.

For she's standing next to someone in costume, someone who looks unconscionably like that ignorant, irritating berk, Thomas- _He's even wearing period dress, the moron-_

Before he knows what he's doing Sherlock is striding towards her, the crowd parting for him as it might for a shark- Or, indeed, a dangerous, scapegrace Duke.

 _The Game,_ Sherlock thinks, _is on._

* * *

"Molly, a word."

His voice sounds tight, restrained. It's coming from behind her.

Cocking an eyebrow Molly turns to look at him, her hands finding their way to her hips as she takes in his glower.

 _What is the name of God..?_

"Preganglionic," she says, the word popping out in nerves at how, how _delicious_ he looks when he's staring at her like that.

 _Molly sometimes wonders if there's something abnormal with her hormones, if this is the sort of thing they like._

He blinks though, confused. "A word," Molly says, "Preganglionic is a word, and you said you wanted one, so-"

"Oh." Sherlock blinks and suddenly he's her friend again, and not the lesser known Greek God of Hotness. "Preganglionic is a fine word," he says. "Excellent, even. But I, um-" His eyes go to Barry beside her, a young fan who has just finished explaining how the last book persuaded him to propose to his boyfriend, and Sherlock's expression hardens. "May I speak to you in private?" he says, even as he reaches out and takes her by the elbow, something which Molly feels somewhat removes the voluntary aspect of his question.

"You ok?" Barry asks but she nods.

"This is Sherlock," she says dryly. "Sherlock has yet to encounter the concept of social skills, Barry. I'm fine." Holmes shoots her an affronted look and she shrugs. Pointedly removes her elbow from his grip and gestures towards a fire escape at the back of the room. _She should probably get this over with._ "This is where everyone's been taking their smoke breaks, Sherlock," she says. "Will it do?"

"Is it private?" he asks, and again he has that smouldering look in his eyes, the one that can melt knickers at fifty paces.

Molly wishes, somewhat disconsolately, that she could turn her inner monologue off right now.

"It is," she says. "Let's go." And she heads towards the door in question, Sherlock trailing behind her and shooting poor Barry daggers as he goes. This only stops when Barry's rather tall, rather muscled boyfriend Thiago moves protectively in front of his partner and Sherlock blinks, surprised. He then hustles ahead, getting to the door before Molly and holding it open for her.

She ducks under his arm and he shoots her a tight smile.

Once they're outside and the door shuts, the noise quietness considerably. Molly takes a deep breath, shivering slightly at the sudden change in temperature, and immediately Sherlock shrugs off his coat. Drapes it around her shoulders.

 _It's so big on her, she feels like she's wearing the Batsuit._

"Can't have you cold," he says gruffly, turning to look out into the night, shivering. That shirt and jacket of his really aren't warm at all. Molly stares for a moment at that beautiful patrician profile of his before turning away sadly. _Dammit woman, eyes on the road._ The lights of London lie before them, a full yellow moon beams down. Stars twinkle, plane lights twinkle, Hell, even the Met helicopter lights twinkle. Everything twinkles, and despite herself, Molly sighs. _It's so romantic._

"Beautiful night, isn't it?" she says wistfully, before kicking herself.

Sherlock mutters something which sounds rather like _Not as beautiful as you_ and she turns to him, eyebrows raised in question.

 _She can't have heard that right._

"Not. As. Beautiful. As. You," he repeats, raising his voice and making sure to enunciate, as if he's speaking to a simpleton.

Molly does the only thing she can do: she punches him lightly on the arm.

 _So much for standing in the moonlight with Sherlock._

"Ow!" he says, voice hurt. "What was that for?"

"You're being a git," she says simply and to her surprise his cheeks pink. He nods. Swallows. His tongue darts out to lick his lips and if she didn't know better, Molly might well think that his eyes flickered down to her lips for a moment.

She forces that ridiculous thought away.

"Yes, well," he's saying, "I must admit I find myself adrift- Perhaps I am being a tad less charming than I wished to be…"

Molly looks at him. "You wish to be charming? To me?" She narrows her eyes. "Why?"

 _Unspoken but loud are the words, What Do You Want Me To Do For You This Time?_

Sherlock pouts, copying her body language. "Well forgive me if I think that I should be charming when I tell a woman I'm in love with her," he bites out. This time it's Molly's turn to blink, but he carries on with nary a pause. _He does aggrievement so well, after all._ "Forgive me if I thought I should set the scene before I explain why I'm here-"

Molly's not following this. "Scene?" she asks. "You want to set a scene?" A thought occurs. _She recalls what he just said about telling a woman he loves her._ "Are you here on a case?" she mutters, dropping her voice. "Do you need me to-"

"I need you to hold still." And without a word of warning Sherlock suddenly grabs her. Pulls her to him. She's so much smaller that she comes easily, her feet scraping along the floor. He reaches down and presses his lips to hers, their teeth clacking loudly together and, before she can work out what he's doing, Molly's foot kicks out in instinct. Smacks him in his shin. He dances back, shooting her a dark look. A _hurt_ , dark look.

 _The git even makes_ _ **that**_ _expression attractive._

"Ow!" he whines. "What the bloody blazes was that for?"

Molly feels her temper rise. "What was that for?" she snaps. " _What was that for?!_ What was the bloody grabbing me and snogging me for, you numpty?"

"I thought it would be romantic," Sherlock whines. "After all, that's how your precious Duke Benedict would do it!"

Molly rolls her eyes. _God give me_ _ **patience.**_ "For the last time," she bites out, "I am not Luisa, and you are not Benedict. They're characters, Sherlock, I just made them up!" Her brain finally catches up with his words and she blinks. "Besides, why are you wondering about how Benedict would kiss me? Why are you even kissing me at all?" And she shakes her head, bewildered. _How is it that he always does this to her?_ _ **How?**_ At her words Sherlock's expression gentles and she takes a deep breath. Squeezes the bridge of her nose and then looks at him straight.

"Sherlock," she says quietly, "Why are you here? Six words or less. Please?"

Still pouting, the detective nevertheless manages to pull himself, once more, to full glowering height. He stares down at her, eyebrow cocked, trying to be commanding, but Molly can see nervousness in his gaze. He shifts his feet and clenches his fists, things he really only does when he's nervous. Despite how annoying he's being, her heart softens a notch.

"I-" he begins. "Well, you see, the thing of it is-"

Molly crosses her arms over her chest. "That's eight words already," she says quietly. "Just spit it out already- Please."

 _She thinks but does not say that she's not sure how much more of this she can take._

"Fine!" Sherlock throws his hands up like a martyr and- she's not makingthis up- stomps his feet. He puts his face in hers and says, very quickly and certainly, "I am in love with you and am trying to tell you as much, Molly Hooper. I didn't realize until recently, and I made a balls of it when I tried to tell you, so now I'm here and I'm being honest and I'd really like you to kiss me if I'm not allowed to kiss you, but more than anything else I would like this mortifying conversation to be over- Is that clear enough for you?"

And he steps away from her. Pouts some more. _It really isn't fair,_ Molly muses dazedly, _how attractive he is when he does that._ "Now, may I kiss you, or have you kiss me, or whatever way you want to do thi-"

But he doesn't get to finish because Molly- quite without her deciding to- has jumped into his arms and set about kissing him silly. He lets out a rather unromantic "Oomph!" as he catches her, but within seconds he's as busy snogging her as she is, snogging him. He's even managed to press her up against the door behind them, effectively keeping the rest of the room out. After what might be seconds- or hours, or days, or a universe worth of wonderful kisses- he pulls back and presses his forehead to Molly's. He brushes a stray strand of hair from her face and honestly, the pathologist thinks that her heart might literally sing.

"So you're ok with me loving you?" he asks and Molly nods. Presses another kiss to his lips.

"I am very, very ok with it, Sherlock," she says breathlessly. She feels her cheeks pink. "After all, I still love you."

He closes his eyes at the words, smiling, and it occurs to Molly that, should he learn what that look does to her then she'll be toast because dear God, how gorgeous is he when he looks like _that? For her?_

He murmurs something and this time it's her that murmurs, "Pardon?"

"Again," he murmurs. "Say it again."

Molly kisses his cheek. The tip of his nose. His eyelids. "I love you," she says with each caress. "I love you, I love you-"

"-And I love you."

They stay out there until Thiago and Billy knock at the door and demand to know whether Molly's ok out there with that psycho? Because if she's not, there's going to be trouble.

Hand in hand, cheeks scarlet, she and Sherlock walk into the room and (to their collective mortification) the room breaks into applause. Wolf whistles. Someone calls them a cab without their even asking for one.

"You love me," Sherlock murmurs into her hair and Molly has never seen him more content.

* * *

 _Meanwhile_

 _Across London_

 _Mission accomplished, Aunt Pen,_ the text message reads. _Thanks to you and our woman in Baker Street._

On vastly different sides of London Martha Hudson and Penelope Holmes raise a glass of sherry to each other and the redoubtable Agent Anthea-

While that same Agent Anthea grins at her boss and holds her hand out, delighted that she won her wager. He counts out ten crisp fifty pound notes as she grins at him.

"I never should have bet against you," Mycroft Holmes mutters drolly and Anthea is rather inclined to agree.


	8. The Duke Gets His Groove Back

_Disclaimer:_ This fanfiction is not written for profit, and no infringement of copyright is intended. This chapter was not beta read because I wanted to publish it and have no patience, but the rest was beta read by Miz Joely. Many thanks to her, and to everyone who has read and enjoyed. Hope you like this last chappie- enjoy!

* * *

 _The Duke Gets His Groove Back (And Then Loses It To Sherlock Holmes)_

* * *

 _The next morning_

Sherlock wakes up to the sound of clicking, huffing and low level swearing.

Molly is sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed, her laptop in front of her. She's typing away, brows scrunched together, her little pink tongue poking out of her mouth to wet her lip. Her favorite mug sits on the bedside locker to her right, and every so often she reaches out and lifts it to take a sip as she writes, only to pause it on the way to her lips as she frowns at the screen. The mug is then replaced whilst she clatters through another frenzy of typing, before the manoeuvre is attempted again, and again goes uncompleted.

 _It is, Sherlock can't help but think, the most adorable thing he has ever seen, a thought he finds both horrifying and absolutely brilliant._

"Stop grinning at me," she says without turning.

Another round of loud typing begins.

Sherlock smiles. Stretches out. He's feeling decidedly more confident this morning than he was when he walked her home last night. "And why would I do that?" He asks with studied innocence, poking her playfully on the bum with his blanket-covered toe.

This time she does look at him, eyes narrowed, but he can see the smile in them.

 _Who knew he'd like it when Molly teases him_?

"You should do that," she says, mimicking his tone, "because not only are you in _my_ house, in _my_ bed, and completely dependent on _me_ for tea and biscuits, but because I said so." That prim edict announced, she turns back to the laptop. Continues typing. Unfortunately for her, however, if there's one thing which Sherlock will not tolerate, it's being ignored. _So…_

Still keeping his eyes on her, he huffs out a breath and tugs his blankets down to his waist, leaning back theatrically on the pillows. He then bites his lip, poking her again with his toe until she glances his way in question. _Now that he knows she still wants him, this sort of behavior is a lot easier to pull off_. "Molly…" he murmurs, making sure to lower his voice because he has reason to suspect that she likes when he does that. He also drags a hand through his curls (he bloody well _knows_ she likes that!) and lets out another, louder sigh. Giving her his best puppy dog eyes, he lets his hand slide down his chest to rest against his stomach. He sees her gulp, pupils dilating, and he grins. _Direct hit!_ He crows to himself. _Take_ _ **that**_ _in the eye, every bloke who isn't me!_

"Molly," he says again, "Molly, I'm cold up here…"

She glances at him, an unwilling smile tugging at her lip, and when he waggles his eyebrows at her she snorts in laughter.

"Then you should pull back up those blankets," she says, turning back to her screen. "Don't want the Great Detective catching a cold, now do we?" She shakes her head. "Your mum would be so cross."

He pouts. "Or maybe," he says, sitting up and moving towards her, "maybe my beautiful, gorgeous, sexy girlfriend could warm me up, hmm?" He nods at the laptop. Tries to pull her to him. "After all, that's what Luisa would do for Benedict, in this situation..."

"Would she, now?" Molly avoids being entangled. Instead she sets the laptop onto the ground, turning to look at him. "Clearly you've never read what she does to him in _The Sign of The Blackmailer_ when he annoyed her." There's a predatory light in her eyes which does rather naughty things to Sherlock's insides. Moving onto all found she starts stalking up the bed towards him, a smile on her lips. A twinkle in her eye. In her little pajamas and messy ponytail, he can't help but think she looks like a goddess, a playful, cunning, familiar, awkward, _dear_ little goddess.

And it's because she is a playful, cunning, familiar, awkward, dear little goddess that he lets her press him down into the bed, her breasts against his chest and her hair tickling his bare shoulders. It's also why he lets her stroke her nose gently along his cheek, a hum of contentment sounding in her throat. In his. He is viscerally, embarrassingly aware of how loud his is, but he can't bring himself to care. Her eyes meet his, breath coming more quickly (as his is) and when their lips are an inch, no a hairs breath from one another-

She kisses the tip of his nose.

Scoots back to the end of the bed (and her laptop) with a devilish whoop.

She even manages to- _finally_!- take a sip of her tea.

"Duke Benedict isn't going to save himself," she tosses over her shoulder, reaching again for her laptop and replacing her tea on the bedside table-

"That's what you bloody think!"

And Sherlock grabs her, tickling her and wrestling her and writhing against her until she's pressed beneath him. She laughs, gasping, but before she can protest he presses his lips to hers in a kiss that steals both their breaths. _It feels like bliss._

Within seconds she's squirming beneath him, one leg hooked around his waist and his curls in her hands as she scratches and tugs at his locks. There are smiles in her kisses and stars in her eyes. There's so much happiness in her, in them, that Sherlock can't quite believe it, and it's all he can do to not grin like a buffoon...

 _How,_ he finds himself thinking, _did he ever go without this?_

When they pull apart (they have to eventually) she beams up at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and Sherlock finds his match hers. Not even trying to stop himself, he swoops down quickly to kiss her again. When he pulls back her fingers are tracing lightly, lovingly, along his cheeks and her body is pressed against his in as many places as it possibly could be. It feels warm. Loving. Tender.

 _Everything but everything about this just feels so_ _ **right**_ _._

Still holding her gaze he reaches down, touching her face. Her lips. He brushes her hair out of her eyes and, as she had done to him, he strokes his nose along hers.

The brightness of her smile makes his chest ache.

"Morning," he says, and he can't help it. Can't help the softness and the happiness and the joy in his words to her.

"Morning," she murmurs back. She presses another kiss to his lips. "I have to admit, this is a bit better than a morning with Duke Benedict."

She frowns, eyes drifting to the laptop.

"Though my publisher probably wouldn't agree..."

"Sod her." A thought occurs. "But isn't he- I mean, isn't Benedict me?"

Molly laughs and it makes him feel oddly affronted. He frowns down at her.

"Duke Benedict is no more really you than I'm really Luisa," she tells him. He raises his eyebrows in surprise and perhaps his scepticism shows because she continues. "I mean, yes," she amends, "yes, originally he was a way… I mean, he started out as a version of you."

Something moves through her gaze, something… vulnerable, and to Sherlock's surprise she pulls him closer rather than pushing him away.

"He was a way for me to have you, or a version of you at least, when I thought you'd never want me." The emotion in her voice at that admission makes him pull her closer to his chest. "But after a while," she continues, "after a while I realized that I liked the real you a lot better than the fictional version." She smiles warmly this time, her dimples showing, and buries her face against his heart. Her voice sounds muffled, and her little hands curl against his sleep shirt. "Real, weird, awkward, wonderful Sherlock is better than perfect, windswept old Benedict any day," she murmurs, "not that I intend to say anything like that out loud, you understand…" She peeks up at him. "Not in front of witnesses, anyway..."

The tips of her ears have turned pink, and at her praise Sherlock is sure that his can match them.

"So you'd rather have me?" He asks, and if his voice sounds a little… unsteady than what of it?

Molly doesn't even hesitate, and oh but he likes that.

"I'd rather have you than some old Duke of Slut character, any day," she says. She gives him a devilish smile. Another kiss. Her hands have somehow made their way out of his shirt and down towards the flesh of his arse. "And if you let me," she's whispering, "if you let me, then I'll have you plenty more times than Luisa will ever have dear Benedict…"

After that, conversation is quite curtailed for the day.

The naughtiness, however, has just begun.

* * *

Eventually, Molly will finish her next novel.

Eventually being the operative word, because she will spend the better part of the next year shagging Sherlock Holmes to her heart's content.

When _Her Final Vow_ finally comes out, everybody comments how happy they are that Benedict and Luisa had finally gotten together.

Molly smiles and takes the adulation and the thanks, and never mentions that she, too, has gotten her happy ending.

That happy ending is currently spending a month on a case in Sweden, being slagged mercilessly by his best friend, and Molly knows Sherlock wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

There now, thank you for reading and I hope it was worth the wait. Have a lovely day!


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